Dog-howlings.--Visit to the Convent of San Josè di
Ribamar.--Breakfast at the Marquis of Penalvas.--Magnificent and
hospitable reception.--Whispering in the shade of mysterious
chambers.--The Bishop of Algarve.--Evening scene in the garden of
Marvilla.
July 2nd, 1787.
I was awakened in the night by a horrid cry of dogs; not that infernal
pack which Dryden tells us in his divine tale of Theodore and Honoria
went regularly a ghost-hunting every Friday, howled half so dreadfully:
Lisbon is more infested than any other capital I ever inhabited by herds
of these half-famished animals, making themselves of use and importance
by ridding the streets of some part, at least, of their unsavoury
incumbrances.
Verdeil, who could not sleep any more than myself, on account of a
furious and long protracted battle between two parties of these
hell-hounds, persuaded me to rise with the sun, and proceed on
horseback along the shore of Belem, which appeared in all its morning
glory; the sky diversified by streaming clouds of purple edged with
gold, and the sea by innumerable vessels of different sizes shooting
along in various directions, whilst the waves at the entrance of the
harbour were in violent agitation, all froth and foam.
To vary our excursion a little, we struck out of the common track, and
visited the convent of San Josè di Ribamar. The building is irregular
and picturesque, rising from a craggy eminence, and backed by a thicket
of elm, bay, and arbor judæ. We were shown by simple, smiling friars,
into a small court with cloisters, supported by low Tuscan columns. A
fountain playing in the middle and sprinkling a profusion of flowers,
gave an oriental air to this little court that pleased me exceedingly.
The monks seem sensible of its merits, for they keep it tolerably clean,
which is more than I will say for their garden. Bindweed and dwarf-aloes
almost prevented our crossing it in our way to the thicket; a delicious
retreat, the refuge and comfort of half the birds in the country. Thanks
to monkish laziness, the underwood remains unclipped, and intrudes
wherever it pleases upon the alleys, which hang over the sea, in a bold
romantic manner.
The fathers would show me their flower-garden, and a very pleasant
terrace it is; neatly paved with chequered tiles, and interspersed with
knots of carnations, in a style as ancient, I should conjecture, as the
dominion of the Moors in Portugal. Espaliers of citron and orange cover
the walls, and have almost gotten the better of some glaring shell-work,
with which a reverend father encrusted them ten or twelve years ago.
Shining beads, china plates and saucers turned inside out, compose the
chief ornaments of this decoration; I observed the same propensity to
shell-work and broken china in a Mr. de Visme, whose quinta at Bemfica
eclipses our Clapham and Islington villas in all the attractions of
leaden statues, Chinese temples, serpentine rivers, and dusty
hermitages.
We returned home before the heat grew quite intolerable, and just in
time to go to a breakfast at the Marquis of Penalva’s, to which we had
been invited the day before yesterday. When once a Portuguese of the
first class determines to admit a stranger into the penetralia of his
family, he spares no pains to set off all he possesses to the most
striking advantage, and offer it to his guest with the most liberal
hospitality; you appear to command him, and he everything. Our
reception, therefore, was most sumptuous and most cordial.
If we had wished for a concert, the best musicians of the royal chapel
were in waiting to perform it; if to examine early editions of the
classics or scarce Portuguese authors, the library was open, and the
librarian ready to hand and explain to us any article that happened to
attract our attention; if to see pictures, the walls of several
apartments displayed an interesting collection, both of the Italian and
Flemish schools; if conversation, almost every person of literary note
in this capital, academicians and artists, were assembled. Supposing the
rarest botanical specimens and flowers had been our peculiar taste, some
of the most perfect I ever beheld were presented to us; and that nothing
in any line might be wanting, the rich grated folding-doors of a chapel
were expanded, and an altar splendidly lighted up, seemed to invite
those who felt spiritual calls, to indulge themselves.
For my part, the sea breezes having sharpened my temporal appetite, I
sat down with great alacrity to breakfast. It was magnificent and well
served. I could not help noticing the extreme fineness of the linen,
curiously embroidered with arms and flowers, red on a white ground.
Superb embossed gilt salvers supported plates of iced fruit,
particularly scarlet strawberries, which are uncommon in Portugal, and
filled the apartment with fragrance; the more grateful, as it excited,
by the strong power of associated ideas, recollections of home and of
England.
Much whispering and giggling was going forward in the cool shade of
several mysterious chambers, which opened into the saloon where we were
at table. These sounds proceeded from the ladies of the family, who, had
they been natives of Bagdad or Constantinople, could hardly have
remained in a more Asiatic state of seclusion. I was allowed, however,
to make my bow to them in their harem itself, which, I was given to
understand, I ought to look upon as a most flattering mark of
distinction. Who should I find in the midst of the group of senhoras,
and seated like them upon the ground _à la façon de Barbarie_, but the
newly-consecrated, and very young-looking Bishop of Algarve, whose
small, black, sleek, schoolboyish head and sallow countenance, was
overshadowed by an enormous pair of green spectacles. Truth obliges me
to confess that the expression which beamed from the eyes under these
formidable glasses, did not absolutely partake of the most decent, mild,
or apostolic character. In process of time, perhaps, he may acquire that
varnish, without which the least holy intentions often miss their aim,
the varnish of hypocrisy. I wonder he has not already attained a more
conspicuous degree of perfection in this style, having studied under a
complete _tartuffe_ and Jansenistical bigot as ever existed, one of the
cock-birds of a nest of imaginary philosophers, who are working hard to
undo what little good has been done in this country, and laying a mine
of ten thousand intrigues to blow up, if they can but contrive it, all
genuine sentiments of religion and morality.
The old Marquis of Penalva pressed us to stay dinner, which was set out
in high order, in a pleasant, shady apartment. Verdeil could not resist
the temptation; but I was fatigued with the howlings of the night, and
the sultriness and bustle of the day, and went home to a quieter party
with the Grand Prior and Don Pedro.
In the evening we drove to Marvilla, the neglected garden I have before
mentioned, and which commands the broadest expanse of the Tagus, a
prospect which recalled to my mind the lake of Geneva, and all that
befel me on its banks. You may imagine, then, it tended much more to
depress than exhilarate my spirits. I consented, however, to accompany
the Grand Prior about the alleys and terraces of this romantic
enclosure, the scene of his childhood, and of which he is peculiarly
fond. The palace, courts, and fountains are almost in ruins, the
parterres of myrtle have shot up into wild bushes covered with blossoms,
and the statues are half concealed by jasmine.
Here is a small theatre for operas, and a chapel, not unlike a mosque in
shape, and arabesque ornaments, darkly shadowed by Spanish banners, the
trophies of the battle of Elvas, gained by an ancestor of the Marialvas.
A long bower of vines, supported by marble pillars, leads from the
palace to the chapel. There is something majestic in this verdant
gallery, and the glow of sun-set piercing its foliage, lighted up the
wan features of several superannuated servants of the family, who
crawled out of their decayed chambers and threw themselves on their
knees before the Grand Prior and Don Pedro.
We wandered about this forlorn, abandoned garden, whose stillness
equalled that of a Carthusian convent, till dusk, when a refreshing wind
having risen, waved the cypresses and scattered the white jasmine
flowers over the parterres of myrtle in clouds like snow. Don Pedro
filled the carriage with flowery sprays pulled from mutilated statues,
and we were all half intoxicated before we reached my habitation with
the delicious but overcoming perfume.